


Deification

by AnontheNullifier



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Evolution of their relationship, F/M, Fluff, Gets steamy towards the end, Starts during Age of Ultron, Wanda isn't sure if it's sacrilegious to lust after a god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 18:56:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10314824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnontheNullifier/pseuds/AnontheNullifier
Summary: Wanda wonders if Vision is actually a god.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a short piece that I wrote to destress after all of my flights got cancelled yesterday thanks to Snowstorm Stella and I couldn't get another flight until tomorrow night. 
> 
> This doesn't quite fit with the continuity or characterization of Celestial Bodies, so I thought I'd just post it separately. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Kudos and comments always appreciated.

From the moment she first met his mind in the cradle, Wanda harbored a deep, concerning veneration for the being that would come to be known as Vision. To feel the pulsating newness of life, explore the dizzying depths of information in his brain, and feel the power of his thoughts intoxicated and terrified her. It felt like she was peeking into the mind of a god, and the thought seemed right, Ultron creating the body for the sole purpose of ascending from the constraints of a robotic existence. When the being emerged from the cradle, scarlet muscles interlaced with the gleam of vibranium, she recognized the reverence in herself instantly, eyes drawn to take in the mythological figure in front of her, yellow stone shining amongst the smoke. It wasn’t until he spoke that the first crack formed in his deification. If Wanda had been asked what she imagined a god would sound like, a gentle, meandering British accent is not what she would describe. Her expectations falling more in line with a deep, booming voice brimming with authority and pithy disregard for the life around it. The second minuscule crack in his godhood fell when the first words he uttered were “I am sorry.” No god in all the books her mother had read her ever apologized from the get go, few ever even apologized for actions that shook the foundations of life, destroying and pruning existence like a game of chess. 

As he continued to speak, she warred with herself, trying to push back the awe spilling forth from her mind, deciding to question the being as to his intentions, sure that destruction of the world and unimportant deeds of humankind would burst forth from his mouth. Instead he turned towards her, a resolute, assured softness to the blink of his eyes as he urged her to look again; an offer none of the others in the room, minus Pietro, would ever utter to her.  But the feelings that she harbored about him, the lust to explore the mind of a god, to pick apart the reasoning that goes into being born and choosing to fight for life without any context or knowledge, the way he must contemplate all ideas and emotions at once and yet not understand them due to his unattainability from the rest, kept her eyes from wandering too far. The flutter of his cape mesmerizing and calming, an invitation for her to reach out and brush against his consciousness. 

But then her life ended, or at least the last tether of her life force left her and she forgot the curiosity, forgot the desire to go toe-to-toe with the mind of a god. Confusion and anger strangling her when he had the audacity to save her, as if he had the right to determine who lived and died. 

 

Slowly recovery occurred, a purpose reforming haphazardly around the hole in her heart as the new compound was erected. The physical demands of being an Avenger allowing distraction from the worthless existence she felt with half her soul torn away. Vision, an odd name that only confirmed his differentness from the rest, always seemed just out of her sight, flirting along the edge of her perceptual field everywhere in the compound. His apparent omnipresence re-awoke the reverence, only this time it was sickening, a desperation gripping her chest at not wanting to believe in a god anymore. 

The first time he stepped out of the periphery, rising up through the floor just in front of her, it startled her, hand dropping the mug of tea, an explosion of ceramic shards at her feet. Just like his first words, a gentle “I am sorry,” met her ears, confusion numbing her limbs as she watched him kneel to pick up the shards. A god should never kneel before her, should not be wearing an argyle sweater and khakis, and should definitely not be nervously wringing his hands while making eye contact. “Miss Maximoff, my apologies for breaking your mug.”

There are stories of those who speak to gods and never survive, yet she feels that if the god speaks first, particularly to apologize, it must be safe. Plus she's spoken to him once before and survived. “It’s fine, that was Sam’s mug anyway.”

“Oh,” the hand wringing intensifies and she watches as his eyes shift up and then to the left, his irises resembling gears, rotating in time with the twitching of his fingers. “Perhaps I should go apologize to Mr. Wilson.”

“That’s not,” she sighs, amusement pushing against her self-imposed neutrality that borders on disengagement. Briefly she wonders what would happen if she touched him, whether she’d turn to a pillar of salt or go up in flames, her sins far too prominent and unforgivable. “What did you want?” 

“You.”

An uncomfortable and surprising fire burns in her chest at the implication. “Excuse me?”

The blue irises spin faster and she can’t help from brushing her powers ever so slightly against his conscious, surprised when she feels no barrier, in fact he almost seems to welcome her, a golden brilliance of acceptance beckoning her deeper. “I wished to find you and inquire as to your health and mental stability.” The fire extinguishes slowly, yet she can still feel it simmer just below the surface as the waves of his thoughts undulate against the reach of her powers. 

“I’m fine, thanks for checking.” The dismissal works on the others in the compound, though each one typically levels a suspicious and upset stare at her, heaving sighs in an attempt for her to change her mind. He does neither. Simply remains standing in front of her, eyes boring into her own and she imagines he is reckoning with her soul, determining if this conversation confirms his final judgment.

“Would you,” his eyes drop and the hand wringing starts back up, fingers waving as he articulates the rest of his question, “like to watch a movie with me? I have discovered that consuming such entertainment gives rise to endless inquiries as to human motivation and behavior and hoped you could answer them for me.” 

Wanda glances at the television and then back at him, weighing the pros and cons of displaying any sort of agreement with shows of congeniality and affability with her teammates. “Okay.”

  
  


His godly exterior continues to fall away with each activity he somehow convinces her to join. From exploring the grounds of the compound, hiking deep into the forested mountains and discovering a lake, to picnics on the roof, reading side by side on the couch (her feet inching closer each time until they fall in his lap), and watching more movies, slowly she forgets that she ever considered him a god. That is not to imply he isn’t a good man, Thor’s hammer determined his ultimate worthiness and his (failed) attempts at crafting a perfect tea for her each day, and the openness of his arms late at night after a nightmare, betrays his genuine care. Eventually she even grows bold enough to touch him, happily noting that she remains unscathed after the first time she nudges his shoulder. The fact that she isn’t a burn mark on the ground or a pillar of salt or even a statute frozen in holy devotion for all time, means she allows herself to experiment more, a brush of his back to say hello and a squeeze of his (extremely godly) bicep when she is excited, and then he touches her in return, hands gripping her arms to help her up or fingers kneading absentmindedly at her feet in his lap. 

Despite this withering away of his deific status, sometimes, particularly on missions, when she sees him across the field, hovering with his cape billowing out and arms to the side, golden justice scorching the enemy with vengeance, the deification renews and Wanda finds herself longing to worship him in ways that only the gods of old would likely approve of, and she isn’t sure he’d prescribe to the more salacious methods of an old god.

  
  
  


The next mission she determines to test the waters, a sizzling curiosity pulsing beneath her skin at just how far she can get with him without compromising the intensely innocent and good-willed man she’s come to adore. 

As they work through the steps of the mission, phasing and blasting through walls and placing enemy combatants in deep states of hypnosis, Wanda pauses, hands glowing in preparation, and glances over her shoulder, mind racing. Vision stands close enough behind her that she can feel the metal clasp of his cape and shivers at the touch of air from his mouth against her neck as his polite cadence continues to explain their progress. “Captain Rogers, Wanda has unlocked the vault.”

A static pause precedes the next order. “Alright, Vision, go ahead and finish this up.” Wanda can’t help the rotation of her eyes as Vision phases through the wall instead of walking through the door she just opened.  With a casual lean, she steadies herself against the cold metal wall, flicking her fingers, sending red arcs dancing in the air while she appreciatively follows Vision with her eyes. She’s made it known to him how much she enjoys his body, a drunken conversation (well she was drunk and he was completely sober) at three in the morning leading to her confession and a surprising revelation that he too gazes at her in appreciation. A fact she has not forgotten and refuses to give up, sweltering under his stare whenever she catches him watching her during training. A scarlet breeze enters the vault, lifting his cape just a bit to the side, causing him to turn towards her, disbelief mixing with an irresistible playfulness on his lips and all she can manage in response is a shrug and silent  _ What?  _

“Captain Rogers, I have secured the substance and it is safe to remove. We will return to the quinjet momentarily.”  And that is new, combining their status into a singular word and Wanda feels her thoughts melting at the way he smiles at her. Perhaps he is a god of old, the way he approaches with a subdued swagger and smile still on his lips. She knows hell, or at least purgatory is waiting for her when she places her hand to his chest, stopping his forward progress, leading to a confused furrow of his brow. Without hesitation she lifts on her toes and presses her lips to his. No lightning crashes down or swells of water carry her away, but he does wrap his fingers around the curve of her hip eliciting a surge of red to engulf them as she presses her body closer to his, a feeling of unworthiness emerging at touching a body sculpted to be perfect. 

  
  
  


The hunger in his eyes when she sways her hips and the urgency in his movement when she straddles him on the couch humanizes him more, lust a great equalizer as she finds herself introducing him to the many earthly delights he had been denied until now. Even though he is so utterly normal in so many things, there still exists the undeniable feeling that he likely falls somewhere well above the average human and this status seems to carry with it a certain understanding of acceptable behavior. So it feels wrong to enjoy the reduction of his calm and divine nature to its primordial, instinctive need for her touch. Reprehensible to savor the way he trembles against her when she teases him and the way his body follows her lead so blindly, desiring simply to experience pleasure. But then again, Eros fell in love with a mortal unintentionally, through twists and turns not unlike their own lives of misfortunes and misunderstandings. Whereas most mortal and immortal relationships end poorly, whether it be by death or turning into a cicada so as to stop the continued aging of a newly everlasting body, Psyche ascended to immortality (without disastrous fine print). Wanda wonders, while his hands push her shirt up and lips suck at the curve of her neck, if he can help her attain the same standing.  

“Vizh.” 

He stops his hands, breath shuddering out as he moves his face back towards her, lips brushing against her own in temptation. “Wanda?”

“I just realized that we could probably go to a new planet and easily become their gods.”

He smirks down at her, fingers twisting into her hair as he bends, placing fluttering kisses along her jawline and pulling a moan from her mouth. “Does this have anything to do with your impressive display of power in training today? You believe yourself a deity now?"

She shoves him gently, knocking his willing and supple body to the bed, before laying on top of him and kissing him, lingering for several seconds before pulling back just enough to look into his eyes. “I think I'm at least on my way and you,” her hand runs along his chest, relishing the contrast between vibranium and synthetic skin, “you are already there.” 

Vision runs his hands along her sides, fingers phasing her clothing away to allow him the opportunity to roam unimpeded. “Will you be a vengeful or merciful goddess?”

“What do you think? We should probably even each other out.”

Wanda watches as he contemplates his next words, irises spinning in lackadaisical circles and his mouth still perked up into a smirk. The flow of his thoughts suggests this is not the first time he has thought of her in this capacity, and the knowledge flushes her skin as she watches his thoughts work and feels his hands move towards her pants. “I imagine you would embody the same energy as Shakti, with Kali also part of your overall presentation. Whereas I,” the cloth phases away from her legs, cold air hitting her skin and causing her to shiver. “I would like to be more of a Baldur.” 

Gently she inserts herself into his mind, eliciting a soft gasp from him as she delves deeper, examining the image of their life he has created. They stand in an impressive room, filled with soaring arches and nebulous skies peek in through the open windows. She is surrounded by red mist, pulsating with life, death, destruction, and renewal, while he stands at her side, a stoic presence of order, peace, and understanding . “I like it. Now we have a plan if we ever need to escape.”

The smile he gives her, loving and yet predatory and the way he leans into her causes her breath to hitch. “How, my goddess, would you like to be worshipped?”  


“Oh,” she is momentarily flustered as his fingers trace along her thigh and climb teasingly up her sides. Her body pulses with red as his lips roam back down in place of his fingers, rejoicing in her own transfiguration under his devout and ravenous stare “you are getting so much better at pillow talk.” 


End file.
